


Find Me Tomorrow

by MarieQuiteContrarie (SeaStar1330)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Christmas, Dancing, Dreams, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Romance, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015, Swanfire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaStar1330/pseuds/MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2016 TEA NOMINEE - BEST HOLIDAY FIC<br/>Ballet instructor and Nutcracker enthusiast Belle French has a terrible crush on bitter divorcé Christian Gold. If only she could get him to acknowledge her existence. When a mysterious blizzard strands them in the Storybrooke Theatre with Gold’s son and star ballet student Emma Nolan, Gold and Belle discover that appearances aren't always what they seem. Will being trapped overnight in a dark theatre lead them to the Christmas miracle everyone’s been searching for? </p><p>**Now with amazing art from AngelQueen13!** </p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Me Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashadeofpemberley](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ashadeofpemberley).



> A Rumbelle Secret Santa gift for ashadeofpemberley. Prompt: Curse, Nutcracker, Find me tomorrow. Please enjoy and have a Merry Christmas!
> 
> Magical Rumbelle Ballet AU.

  
[Rumbelle Nutcracker by AngelQueen13](http://angelqueen13.deviantart.com/art/RSS-Rumbelle-Nutcracker-580685363)

 

“Pop, come on. It’s time to go now,” Baeden announced, jangling the car keys in front of his father’s nose.

With his dark head bent over his workbench and brow furrowed in concentration, Christian Gold gave no indication that he’d heard a single sound. He muttered to himself as though he was alone in the shop.

 “Pop. Please.” Bae released the thoroughly exasperated sigh of a 16-year-old boy. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Hmmm?” Gold said, refusing to avert his eyes from the antique vase he was restoring. Perhaps if he continued working and pretended not to hear, he could avoid going to the dance studio. Avoid seeing _her_.

“Emma’s counting on me, Pop,” Bae reminded him. “Counting on _us_. We promised to pick her up from ballet practice and I really want to watch her dance for a few minutes tonight. The ballet is on Friday—only three days away!”

“I just need to finish this,” Gold said, but even as the words left his mouth, guilt washed over him. He scowled, hating that Bae was right. Damnable conscience. For most of the year he could and would just ignore it, but Christmas was upon them, and even a Scrooge such as he relented in the spirit of the holiday.

In just a few days Emma would be performing in Storybrooke’s rendition of one of Tchaikovsky’s most celebrated compositions, The Nutcracker. Gold hated dancing, hated community activities, hated anything that drew him out of his shop and among other people. But he loved his son and he was fond of Emma Nolan. Baeden was in another stratosphere of excitement for his girlfriend, and that meant that Gold would grit his teeth and suffer in silence.

Feeling the weight of Bae's disapproving gaze, Christian groaned inwardly and forced himself to look into his son’s pleading brown eyes. He placed the half-finished Regency vase carefully on the bench. “All right,” he relented. “I’ll get my coat.”

Relief flooded Bae’s face, the tension melting away into a bright smile. “Thank you, Pop.”

“Yes, yes,” Christian grumbled, sliding into his greatcoat. “Oh! I almost forgot.” Gold walked through the parted curtains separating the back of the shop from the front and snapped open a display case. “Here, I thought you might like to give this to Emma. An early Christmas present or good luck with the ballet. Whatever you like.”

Delighted, Baeden accepted the gift—an incredible hand painted wooden Nutcracker. Festooned in a cheerful red coat, matching hat, blue belt, and shiny black boots, the Nutcracker was the very picture of holiday cheer. Beautiful dark eyes framed his face and his shoulder length hair was dark and soft to the touch. “Wow, thanks, Pop! Did you fix this yourself? It looks brand new. Emma’s going to love it!”

Gold beamed at his son, pride in making his boy happy swelling his chest. Yes, the many hours he had spent restoring the figurine were worth it to see that expression on Bae’s face.

Peering closely at the wooden solider, Bae stroked a finger down the smooth grain of its cheek. He shuddered, then glanced at his father’s face. How strange. The Nutcracker bore his father’s likeness.

“Hey, Pop? This Nutcracker looks a bit like you.”

“Oh?” Gold examined the majestic, brave figurine and snorted before wrapping it in tissue paper and tucking it into a gift bag. Never had he looked so proud and regal. “I think you’re imagining things, son. Come on. You’re going to be late to meet your wee sweetheart.”

“You know,” Bae said casually, casting a sideways glance at his father as they walked to the car, “Miss French will be there.”

So much for his not-terrible mood, Gold thought sourly as he impatiently thumped his cane on the asphalt. “Why should I care? I mean, of course she’ll be there; it’s her studio,” he amended quickly, giving a disinterested sniff for good measure. “Between the ballet school, the library, and the music classes she organizes, that woman is a walking Fine Arts department. I doubt she eats, sleeps, or has any sort of life.”

 _And that makes her different from you because?_ The voice in Gold’s head mocked him. _Oh, that’s right. You’re nothing but an ornery old cripple who can’t dance. Belle French is a young, beautiful, vibrant, graceful woman adored by the entire community._

“Shut up,” he commanded his brain.

“What?” Bae asked.

“Nothing.” Fantastic. Now he was yammering to himself like a daft lunatic in front of Bae.

Bae hid a smile. Pop wasn’t fooling anyone with his caustic comments. With the great pains he took to avoid her, it was pretty clear he liked Belle French. He’d seen the way Gold looked at her—in the library, at church, and on the rare occasion he could drag him to the ballet studio. Whenever he gazed at Miss French, his father’s usually harsh cynical eyes grew soft and warm, lightening to the color of liquid caramel. And yet his father, who noticed everything and everyone, failed to notice the heated way in which Belle French stared back.

It seemed obvious to everyone save Gold that Belle was waiting for the pawnbroker and antiquities dealer to show even a modicum of interest, and Bae couldn’t count the number of hints he had dropped and times he had outright demanded that Pop ask Belle to join him for dinner, a movie, or coffee.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Gold had pretended to misunderstand when Bae suggested meeting Miss French for a cup. “I drink tea. As does any respectable Scotsman.”

Bae had simply rolled his eyes in response. Pride and fear kept Pop from Miss French, not disinterest. His mother had walked out on them 14 years ago when Bae had been just two years old. While it had hardly been a love match, his Pop felt a lot of guilt for how the marriage had ended.

Shortly before she left, they had gotten into a huge fight that culminated in his father falling off a ladder near the top of the 20-foot tall Christmas tree that Milah Gold had insisted upon, leaving Gold with a shattered knee and a bruised ego. Bad memories of relationships. Bad memories of Christmastime. But would his father ever stop punishing himself for the past? Despite his gruffness, he was a kind, compassionate man who deserved a happy Christmas and a good life. Bae whispered a quiet prayer that somehow, someway, Pop and Belle would find each other.

* * *

“And one last _plié_ ,” Belle French instructed her students at the _barre_. “Beautiful. Let’s move on to our center combinations. Practice, practice, practice. Our steps must be flawless for our performance in three days.”

Dutifully, her charges moved into position in the center of the studio and Belle beamed her pleasure. She could not wait to officially begin Christmas in Storybrooke with The Nutcracker. Was there anything more quintessentially holiday than the beloved ballet featuring the ingénue Clara and her adventure with her dashing Nutcracker-turned-Prince?

Dancing the lead in The Nutcracker had been Belle’s fondest dream ever since she was a three year old in Miss Blue’s Bitty Ballerina class back home in Sydney. It was a beautiful fantasy of adventure, bravery, and learning that appearances could be deceiving. Maybe Belle longed to dance The Nutcracker because she fancied herself a lot like Clara? Like the bold young star of the ballet, Belle was curious, sentimental, inquisitive, fond of books, and hopelessly romantic.

Accepted at age 15 into the Australian Ballet School and later winning a coveted position with the Australian Ballet Company, it had seemed that all her ambition and hard work was going to pay off and Belle would finally be able to make her dream a reality. After years of waiting for the opportunity, she’d just begun rehearsals to dance Clara, when a fateful car accident crushed her Achilles tendon—and her dreams. And she had been the fortunate one—she may not have walked away from the crash, but at least she had lived through it. The other driver who caused the collision and Belle’s mother, who was driving, had both died.

A endless string of dark days melted one into the other as Belle grieved the loss of her mother as well as her professional dancing career. Despite multiple surgeries using the latest techniques and round after round of physical therapy, she no longer had the stamina for the professional ballet circuit. Needless to say, she did not dance The Nutcracker that Christmas. Or any Christmas.

After the tragic way her career had ended, no one was more amazed than Belle that she loved teaching ballet even more than she had loved dancing. When Belle and her father moved halfway across the world from Sydney, Australia, to Storybrooke, Maine, for a new start, dividing her time between the library and teaching ballet became her solace and her armor against a lonely life.

Perhaps she would never dance The Nutcracker, Belle mused, but she did have this wonderful opportunity to choreograph and direct. Even so, watching talented young Emma Nolan perform Clara, the role that she herself had so longed to bring to life, was bittersweet.

Snapping her attention back to the here-and-now, Belle guided the class through _tendus_ , an _adagio_ combination, _pirouettes_ , and _petite_ and _grande allegros_. When they were all damp with sweat and breathing heavily, Belle clapped her hands, signaling her principals to dance the love duet before concluding class for the evening. “Emma and August, please move forward for the pas de deux,” she called out. “The rest of you may do stretches at the _barre_.”

As Emma took her position, Belle heard the young dancer gasp delightedly at the appearance of a visitor. A small smile played across Emma’s lips as she met her boyfriend’s eyes in the mirror. Ah, young love. Belle winked at Bae, shooing him over to the benches to watch the dancing out of Emma’s sightline. The teenagers could flirt later. With the show only a handful of days away, Emma had no time for distractions while dancing.

But then it was Belle’s turn to gasp as she heard a rhythmic staccato tap on the wooden floor. Bae wasn’t alone. His father followed behind him, an unreadable expression on his face. Dressed impeccably as always in an expensive navy three-piece suit and clutching his trademark gold-tipped cane, Mr. Gold strode into the studio in his typical arrogant fashion. Trying to tease the scowl off his face, Belle gave him a welcoming smile. Gold replied with a curt nod and sat down on the bench next to his son.

She’d been snubbed. Again. Face aflame with embarrassment, Belle turned away quickly. Why, why did she keep trying to get that man’s attention? By now she should have taken the hint. She asked him about books when he came into the library, but he checked out and rushed off. She offered to share her booth with him at Granny’s, but he decided to take his food to go. She engaged him in conversation on the sidewalk, but he just smiled thinly and excused himself. And just last week at the church social when she offered him a slice of the chocolate pie she was serving he declined and stalked off, muttering about dancers always being on a diet.

Gold was obviously not interested in a has-been ballerina.

 _And why would he be, Belle?_ Her inner monologue was taunting, always taunting. _He’s a rich, classy, handsome man. A businessman and a landowner. He practically owns the entire town. You are just a washed up former ballet dancer._

Feeling exposed and stupid, Belle longed to cover her practice tunic with a fluffy sweater and curl up on her sofa with a steaming cup of tea and a fat, juicy novel—somewhere far from Mr. Gold’s cold, appraising stare.

While Belle’s mind whirled with the many times she had tried and failed to engage Mr. Gold, Emma and August concluded their dance duet and led their classmates in a _reverence_ —the students curtseyed and bowed their respects to Belle and to the pianist, Astrid Kline.

As soon as class ended, Emma rushed over to Belle and inclined her head toward the back of the studio where father and son were sitting. The other students filed out the door, laughing and talking. Bae waited patiently for Emma to conduct ballet business with her teacher. But Emma had a different sort of conversation in mind.

“Mademoiselle French, Mr. Gold looks very nice today,” Emma remarked with a smile.

“Does he?” Belle studied her clipboard, forcing herself to sound aloof. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I think you’re lying, Mademoiselle,” Emma observed lightly.

Speechless at having been caught, Belle’s eyes rounded in surprised and flew to Emma’s face. The young woman just shrugged. “It’s my superpower.”

“I see.” Belle chuckled, the laughter burning off her humiliation and Emma linked her arm through hers, leading her toward the Gold men with a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on. We need hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon. They’re taking us to Granny’s.”

Feeling bewildered and shy at the suggestion, Belle hung back. All she needed was for Gold to think she was using this wily teenager to trap him into spending time with her! “Emma, I don’t know…I think I’m going to head home.”

“Oh please, you can’t,” she pouted. “I wanted to talk to you about my _arabesques_.”

“You needn’t worry, Emma. You’re going to be wonderful as Clara,” Belle assured. “We practice again at dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Come to Granny’s, Mademoiselle,” Emma persisted. Bae’s dad and Miss French were going to find happiness together. They just didn’t know it yet. “Mr. Gold needs a friend. I think you could use one, too.”

Tears filled Belle’s eyes and she inhaled deeply. Belle was awfully tired of being embarrassed, but perhaps she could try again. Maybe Mr. Gold would be more at ease with his son there? Emma said he needed friendship. A solitary individual, he held himself apart from others, observing people without becoming involved. He was grouchy, unfriendly, and stubborn. He was also generous, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome. But it was his total devotion to Baeden that convinced her that Mr. Gold was special. Belle had never seen a father who loved a child more. Yes, Gold was an enigma, and Belle had always loved mysteries. Wincing, Belle smoothed back the hair at her temples as she inventoried reasons not to give up on the frustrating pawnbroker. “All right.”

* * *

It was the Wednesday before Christmas and though the evening wind was bitterly cold, Granny’s was bustling with patrons. Children of all ages sipped mugs of peppermint hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and consumed huge wedges of her delicious gingerbread spice cake. The festive scents of pine, orange, and cinnamon perfumed the air and lively Christmas carols rang out from the jukebox. Everyone was laughing and talking loudly and excitedly.

All except for one awkwardly quiet table of four.  

Gold sipped his spiced holiday tea slowly, trying not to gawk at Belle French seated across from him in the booth. As the silence stretched between them, she fiddled with her own cup of tea and Gold admired the graceful slope of her shoulders and the way her thick eyelashes cast shadows across her flushed cheekbones. She was beauty, kindness, and grace—everything he was not. Bae insisted she was interested in him, but Gold hadn’t a clue why. He had nothing to offer.

He had to admit that his son’s efforts to match-make were charming, though. Gold smothered a smirk as Bae and Emma threw meaningful glances and not-so-subtle hand gestures in an attempt to spark conversation. When Emma, hands flailing, nearly dumped her hot chocolate in Belle’s lap, Gold decided to put them out of their misery. Leaning toward Bae he suggested lowly, “Why don’t you give Emma her present?”

With a bashful smile, Bae offered the gift bag to Emma, whose face glowed with excitement. “For good luck,” he stammered.

Carefully, she unwrapped the package, the rustling of red tissue paper the only sound in the booth. “It’s a Nutcracker!” Emma looked up at Bae with sparkling eyes. “Oh Mademoiselle, look!”

“He’s wonderful. What a lovely, thoughtful present.” Belle smiled wistfully, admiring the Nutcracker thoroughly then turned to Mr. Gold. “Did you restore this figurine yourself?”

Gold nodded.

“You’re an artist, Mr. Gold,” Belle said softly.

Flummoxed by the compliment, Gold studied his blunt fingernails until he felt the point of a boot meet his shin. “Ow!” Rubbing his offended calf, he narrowed his eyes at Emma and Bae. Now the scamps were kicking him?

“What was that?” Belle asked.

“Uh, thank you.” His mouth turned up at the corners in a grimace resembling a smile.

“You’re welcome,” Belle beamed, bright as the sun, and Gold gave an involuntary shiver at the contrast of her gleaming white teeth against her lush pink lips.

“Don’t you think he looks like Pop?” Bae put in, tugging lightly on the Nutcracker’s soft brown hair. “All he needs is a three-piece suit.”

Belle grinned even more broadly at that. And before Gold could open his mouth to retort that no, the lump of wood looked nothing like him, Emma slipped out of the booth and kissed Bae on the cheek.

“I’ve got to show Elsa,” she squeaked and rushed to the register where her best friend was working, bursting to show off her present.

“Look what Bae gave me for good luck on Friday night!” she crowed happily.

“Wow,” Elsa drawled, pretending to leer at the Nutcracker. “I mean for a wooden guy, he’s pretty hot.”

Emma giggled. “Bae thinks he looks like his dad.”

Considering, Elsa looked back and forth between the figurine and Mr. Gold sitting across the diner. “Hmmm. Yeah, there’s a bit of a resemblance. Maybe you should give the Nutcracker to Miss French and ask _her_ if it looks like Mr. Gold,” Elsa joked.

“Elsa, that’s brilliant,” Emma breathed, clutching the Nutcracker to her chest. “I’ve gotta get back to the table. I’ll text you later.” Weaving her way quickly through the crowded restaurant, Emma nearly overturned a tray of desserts that Ruby Lucas was carrying. Stopping short just in time, she lost her balance and pitched backwards—straight into the arms of her dancing partner, August Booth.

“Ooommmphh!” August let out a surprised grunt and Emma’s handsome Nutcracker sailed out of her grasp and clattered to the floor, sliding to a stop across the room.

“Oh no!” Emma cried, racing to rescue the statue. Picking him up, she was dismayed to see that his left leg was broken, the bottom half dangling below the knee. His soulful brown eyes seemed reproachful and sad, and Emma started to cry. It had taken a mere five minutes for her to destroy Bae’s beautiful present.

“Bae, look what I did,” Emma sobbed as she returned to the table, handing the Nutcracker to Belle. “I broke his little leg! Some ballet dancer I am—not even graceful enough to walk through a restaurant. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok, Emma,” Bae soothed, enveloping her in a tight hug. “Please don’t worry. Pop might be able to fix him.”

“Really?” Hope crept into Emma’s tearful voice.

“Anyway,” Bae continued, trying to tease a smile out of her, “don’t they always tell dancers and actors to break a leg before a big performance? So you broke one. Just not yours.”

White-faced, Gold scowled. It was only a Nutcracker and dropping it had been an accident, but the incident reminded him of his own ruined knee and how he had fallen off a ladder near the top of Milah’s towering Christmas tree. Yes, he had seen enough broken legs at Christmastime. Desperate for some air, he started to rise from the booth.

“Wait, Mr. Gold,” Belle piped up, gesturing toward his chest. “May I borrow your pocket square, please?”

Gold had no idea what she wanted it for, but he shrugged and handed her the scrap of silk. He had hundreds more at home.

Then she did something that robbed the breath from Gold’s lungs. Awestruck, he watched as Belle cradled the little Nutcracker in her slender hands and fashioned his pocket square into a tiny tourniquet. “There,” she soothed, wrapping the scarlet piece of fabric around the nutcracker’s injured leg. “Now he’s good as new. Look, it even matches his outfit.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle French!” Emma squeezed Belle’s neck tightly. Then she and Bae excused themselves to join their friends in choosing Christmas carols at the jukebox, leaving Belle and Gold alone.

Belle was still looking fondly at the Nutcracker and Gold wondered what she saw in it now that it had been maimed.

“You still like that thing?” Gold scoffed, pinning Belle with a hard stare. “Even though its leg is mangled and ugly?”

“He’s not ugly!” Belle defended the wooden doll. “He may not be perfect on the outside, but inside beats the heart of a Prince.”

“Do you really believe that?” he demanded, unable to believe she would be so easily accepting.

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly. “Nobody’s perfect, Mr. Gold—and I’m glad. Flaws make us human, interesting. The world would be a very boring place if everyone was perfect, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly, but inside his spirit something tightly coiled sprang free. He hadn’t realized how terribly important her answer was until she had given it. “Miss French—”

“Please call me Belle,” she interrupted.

“Belle,” he repeated, pleased with the way her name tasted on his tongue. But then Emma and Bae returned to the table and he froze, uncertain of how to continue. Withdrawing a gold pocket watch, he noted the late hour. “I think it’s time to drive Emma home. Can I offer you a lift, Belle?”

“No, thank you. My car is right next door at the ballet studio,” she reminded him.

“As you wish,” he said, sliding the bill off the table with a polite nod. He tossed Bae the keys to his Cadillac. “Go warm up the car for Emma. Good night, Belle.”

“Good night,” she said watching his retreating back as he walked to the register.

“See you tomorrow, Mademoiselle.” Emma headed out the diner door with Bae in tow.

“Yes, good night, dear,” Belle replied distractedly. She was still staring at Gold. “Bae, wait,” Belle urged, tugging on his sleeve.

Grabbing a crumpled piece of tissue paper leftover from Emma’s gift, Belle pulled out a pen and scribbled a short note. Pressing the paper into Bae’s hand she whispered, “Please give this to your papa for me.”

May as well finish my tea, Belle thought, sinking back into the booth to savor the lukewarm brew. She’d been too nervous to eat and drink in Mr. Gold’s unsettling presence. A flash of red caught her attention and she looked down at the bench beside her. Warm brown eyes and a droll little mouth greeted her. Emma had forgotten her Nutcracker. “I’ll just put you here for safekeeping,” she told him, tucking him into her satchel. “You’ll be a welcome sight for Emma tomorrow.”

* * *

“‘ _Find me tomorrow_?’ What the hell does that mean?” Gold growled, crumpling the tissue paper note in his fist.

“Pop, relax. It’s like I’ve been telling you for months.” Bae was slouched on the sofa, throwing fluffy bites of popcorn into the air and catching them in his mouth while he watched _A Wonderful Life_ for what had to be the tenth time this week. “Miss French likes you. Tomorrow night is the dress rehearsal and we can head to the theatre after you finish at the shop.”

“How do you know this anyway? That she likes me?” Gold loosened his tie and turned off the TV. Why was it so hot in here? He knew he was being stubborn, but Bae was just a child. He had no idea how complicated adult relationships could be.

“How do I know?” Bae echoed. “I have eyes, Pop. Whenever you’re around she’s always smiling and blushing and getting nervous and stuff. Haven’t you noticed that she looks for reasons to come and talk to you?”

“You’re only a boy,” Gold said softly, but not unkindly. How was it possible that his teenager knew more about life and love than he did? Gold raked a hand through his hair and sighed. Good Lord, he felt old. Old and foolish.

“I’m 16 now, Pop. I know all about love and sex and…”

“Ack!” Gold threw up a hand to silence him, not wanting to hear another word.

Stubbornly, Bae continued. “Emma and I have—”

“What? Emma and you have _what?_ ” Gold thundered, his eyes glinting dangerously in the firelight. “You may be the resident Casanova in this house—”

“Who?”

“Never mind!” Gold barked. “Baeden Jefferson Gold, Miss Nolan is a young lady and I will not have you conducting yourself as anything less than a gentleman. Am I clear? You don’t fool around with a girl like that, son. You marry her.” Gold felt his jugular begin to throb.

“As I was saying, Emma and I have decide to wait for a while,” Bae explained, drawing a comforting arm around his father’s shoulder. “She’s not ready and neither am I. But right now we’re talking about your love life. Just give Belle a chance, Pop. And while you’re at it, give yourself one, too. You deserve to be happy.”

Gold shook his head. “How did a man like me get blessed with a son like you?’

“I was raised by a wonderful father who loves me with everything he is.” Bae hugged Gold roughly, pounding him on the back. “Night, Pop.”

As Bae climbed the stairs to go to bed, Gold dropped back into his worn leather armchair and groaned, remembering how tenderly Belle had cared for wounded Nutcracker in the diner. A kernel of hope burst to life in his heart.

 _Don’t kid yourself. Just because she took care of a silly wooden doll in front of a bunch of people doesn’t mean she will care for a cripple like you._ There it was again. The dreaded inner voice. _You’ve seen what she’s like in front of an audience, but consider how cruel she could be in private. She could be just like Milah. Flesh and blood encasing a heart of stone._

Squelching his horrible doubts, Gold smoothed out Belle’s hasty note, still clutched in his fist. _Find me tomorrow. Find me tomorrow. Find me tomorrow._ Seized by a mixture of terror and intrigue, he read those three powerful words over and over until he felt a soothing calm wash over him. Suddenly there was nothing but peace. Yes, he would go to the theatre. He would get to know the lovely Miss French.

“Aye, Belle,” he relented aloud softly, having lost the battle of should nots. “I’ll find you tomorrow. Just please don’t break my heart.”

* * *

Belle wore her best navy ballet tunic to the dress rehearsal, pleased with the way the garment draped over her slender body and made her sapphire eyes sparkle. Besides, it was warm and practical for a cold winter’s night. Rather than pulled back into her trademark ballet bun, Belle left her russet curls unbound, loose and flowing over her shoulders. It was important that she look her best as she prepared her class for their big debut, right? _Oh, who are you kidding, Belle?_ Her conscience mocked as she craned her neck toward the doors for the fiftieth time since arriving at the theatre an hour ago. _You’re hoping to look elegant for Mr. Gold. He’s always so well-dressed, unlike you, who pretty much lives in leotards and tights._

“Cut it out,” she scolded herself.

“Mademoiselle, is something wrong?” Emma landed a _pirouette_ and whipped around, concerned.

Coloring, Belle ducked her head sheepishly. How loud had she been talking? “No, no,” she waved a hand. “Please don’t stop! Everyone is dancing beautifully. _Corps_ dancers, take it from the top.”

Forcing herself to pay attention, Belle stopped scanning the entrances and exits for Mr. Gold and concentrated on her students. Carried away by the beauty of the ballet, an hour later she was damp with exertion and she’d forgotten all about her anxious vigil—until she heard laughter coming from the seats.

The happy sound was coming from Ingrid Erickson, who claimed to be a distant aunt of Emma’s. Oddly, no one really knew where she was from and no one could remember when she had come to town. Perhaps she had always lived here? This confusion led some Storybrooke residents to whisper that Ingrid, who owned the local ice cream shop, was more than a little bit strange. But Belle thought Ingrid was perfectly lovely—and she made a mean Rocky Road ice cream, too.

Then Belle noticed the source of Ingrid’s amusement—Mr. Gold was reclining casually in the third row of seats, talking animatedly to the willowy blonde. Her heart sank. What was so funny? Unfortunately, he was too far away for Belle to make out the words. Another peal of laughter rang out. Ingrid threw her head back, displaying her ample cleavage.

That did it.

All feelings of goodwill toward Ingrid evaporated, and Belle sank her teeth into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. For months she’d been trying to get Mr. Gold to look her way. Now Ingrid, in her elegant winter white woolen dress, towering heels, and sophisticated chignon, appeared intent on seduction and Mr. Gold was eating up her flirtations with a spoon.

Why was he talking to her anyway, she wondered unreasonably. The note she’d given Bae had specifically requested that Mr. Gold was to come to the theatre to find her, not to work this statuesque drink of water into a frenzy. _So now he’s not allowed to talk to other women, Belle? Surely you can see that someone as lovely as Ingrid would hold some appeal for Mr. Gold._

Oh, she was appealing all right, Belle gritted her teeth. What exactly was she doing now? There weren’t enough free seats in the empty theatre? Perching on the arm of the chair Mr. Gold was sitting in, Ingrid leaned in closer, batting her dark lashes and…oh my God, was she touching herself?

Belle wanted to lunge off the stage and scratch Ingrid’s eyes out.

Fortunately, the crowd of witnesses forced her to restrain herself. What kind of example would that be for her class? Sulking silently, she kept one narrowed eye on Gold and Ingrid and the other on her kids for the last 15 minutes of the interminable rehearsal.

As parents trickled in to pick up their children, Belle continued to dawdle on the stage, chatting, answering the occasional question…anything to avoid facing Mr. Gold. He was still sprawled insolently in the cushioned chair, dressed in a navy pinstripe suit (her favorite, damn him!) and looking so handsome that her jaw ached.

Soon all the members of her class were gone except Emma, and Belle had run out of reasons to fuss backstage. The set was finished, her dancers knew their steps and cues, and every last sequin had been sewn into place. They were ready.

Digging into her satchel for a sweater, Belle’s hands landed on something hard. Of course! It was Emma’s Nutcracker. Stroking his cheek, Belle looked at his friendly face affectionately. “I wish you could be my boyfriend,” she whispered to the little wooden doll. Giggling at her own absurdity, she hopped down to join Gold, Emma, Bae, and Ingrid where they were still talking in the seats. Returning Emma’s Nutcracker would give her the excuse to eavesdrop.

“Belle,” Ingrid greeted, rising to clasp her free hand warmly. “We’re so excited for The Nutcracker! I was just telling Mr. Gold here how lucky we are to have a ballet instructor of your caliber in Storybrooke.”

“Yes, I noticed you two…talking.” Still cradling the Nutcracker possessively, Belle looked past Ingrid to glare at Gold. She had no right to be jealous but she was tired and emotional and didn’t care. Couldn’t he just say he wasn’t interested so she could move past this debilitating crush? He had to know she liked him, and allowing her to hope was a passive aggressive way of stringing her along. That nice police officer Graham Humbert was always asking her out. Maybe she should say yes and forget about winning this impossible man.

“I consider myself quite the balletomane, you know. I had the pleasure of watching you dance _Giselle_ in Sydney. You were a wonderful dancer,” Ingrid enthused, bringing Belle out of her depressing thoughts.

“Thank you.” No more than five minutes ago she’d wanted the woman’s head on a pike, but then Belle heard herself say, “Coming to Storybrooke was truly a blessing, though. I love teaching even more than I loved dancing. My one regret is that I never danced the role of Clara in The Nutcracker.” _Now, what had possessed her to admit that?_

Noticing the figurine tucked in Belle’s arm, Ingrid cooed, “What an exquisite piece this is. Yours? And Gold’s work, I presume. May I see?”

“Mr. Gold restored him, yes. He actually belongs to Emma, but I don’t think she will mind you having a look.” Belle carefully passed the Nutcracker to Ingrid. Deeply engrossed in each other, Emma and Bae had their foreheads pressed together at the other end of the theatre.

“So this little fellow belongs to Emma? How strange.” Ingrid touched a finger to the Nutcracker’s wounded leg, still shrouded by Gold’s pocket square and shrugged lightly, handing it back. “Well, Christmas is a time of miracles. I’ll be in the front row Friday night, cheering you on. Good night, Belle; good night, Gold.” Ingrid squeezed Gold’s knee and disappeared out the door.

* * *

“You’re angry with me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“What gave you that idea?” Belle tossed her head, flouncing into a seat three chairs down.

“Now that I’m learning how to read you, you are something of an open book. You saw me talking to Ingrid, saw her laughing, and your face got all white and pinched,” he said, watching her teeth worry her plump lower lip as she paled again. “Rather like that.”

“Indeed. You seemed to have no trouble talking to _her_.” Belle’s tone was bitter.

“Talking is easy when you don’t care what the other person thinks of you,” Gold admitted softly.

Oh. Well that slammed the door on her vitriol. “Do-do you care what I think of you?” Belle murmured, looking down at the Nutcracker in her lap.

A blur of deep blue swam in front of her. Gold had risen to stand before her, but Belle was too shy to meet his eyes. Cupping her chin in his warm, rough palm, he lifted her face to his. There was not even a hint of irony in those deep caramel pools. “Very much.”

His honesty gave Belle courage. “I wasn’t sure after…I mean, Ingrid is very beautiful and seeing the two of you together, you both seem very well suited. She's a better match for you than a has-been ballerina.” Now that she’d started confessing her insecurities, Belle couldn’t seem to stop. “And you’ve never acted interested in me, no matter what I’ve done or said to get your attention.”

“Belle, I’ve been a bastard. Forgive me,” he begged. “I did come to see you tonight. You asked me to find you tomorrow, and here I am.”

Before Belle could find the words to respond to his declaration, the overhead lights flickered ominously and Bae trotted over, putting a stop to their conversation. “Pop, we’ve got a problem.”

“Of course we do.” Gold rolled his eyes. “Because it wouldn’t be a day in Storybrooke without a problem. What’s going on, son?”

“All the door are locked,” Bae’s brown eyes, identical to his father’s, were wide and serious.

“All the doors?” Belle repeated. “Really?”

“Yes. Every single one,” Emma jogged over, breathless from running around the building. “We tried them all.”

“There must be a way out,” Gold insisted. “Even if we can’t get out from the inside, we make a couple of strategic phone calls and someone comes and lets us out.”

“Well, we thought of that, Mr. Gold. But my mobile phone is dead,” Emma announced. “So is Bae’s.”

“That’s strange,” Belle reached into her satchel and pulled out her iPhone, holding it in the air to search for a signal. “Nothing. What about the office phones…” she trailed off as Emma shook her head.

“Couldn’t get a dial tone on a landline,” Bae said.

“This is ludicrous!” Gold snapped, whipping open his greatcoat. “All these so-called smartphones. Here I have a completely basic, purely functional flip phone and it….doesn’t work either.” Crestfallen, Gold scanned the blank screen.

“Maybe there’s a tower down?” Belle wondered.

“Maybe it’s the blizzard,” Bae yawned, flopping down on the patterned carpet. “Guess we’re staying here tonight.”

“Blizzard?” Gold jumped up from his chair and walked to the window. “What blizzard? There was no snow in the forecast tonight.” Sure enough, white flakes were falling fast and furious, blanketing the ground and drifting toward the windows.

All at once the theatre went completely black, and no amount of playing with the switches was bringing the lights back. First the doors, now a power outage?

“Perhaps this is the ‘Christmas miracle’ Ingrid was talking about?” Belle suggested peevishly. “More of a curse if you ask me! She was the last person to leave…don’t you think it’s odd that she made that comment and a few minutes later all the doors are locked and the power goes out?”

Gold smiled a little at Belle’s attempt to blame Ingrid for their current predicament. The beautiful ballet teacher was jealous and he had to admit he was enjoying it. “Let’s start looking through the closets,” he said, offering her his arm. “Bae! Get up, son. We need blankets, flashlights, and food. It looks as though we are at least going to be here until morning. I can tell you one thing for certain: tomorrow the owner of this building will be putting in a backup generator.”

“Don’t you own the theatre, Mr. Gold?” Emma piped up.

“Exactly.” Gold nodded resolutely.

An hour later, the four of them had raided every storage closet in the facility, bringing flashlights, batteries, blankets, pillows, chocolate, crackers, bottled water, and a flask of whiskey back to the main arena. Though warmer than the expansive auditorium, the small theatre manager’s office was much too small for all of them to rest comfortably.

As they settled into the corner of the floor closest to the stage, Gold noticed that Belle was favoring her left leg. “Belle, are you limping?”

“I may have overexerted myself tonight,” she admitted, the tiny lines around her eyes white with strain. Her tendon was burning, taunting her with the knowledge that she could no longer dance full out the way she had tried to this evening. Not only had her passion for The Nutcracker roared to life on a stage, she had wanted to impress Mr. Gold with her skill. Now, trapped in this chilly dark theatre without pain medication, her pride was costing her.

“Bae, run and get Miss French some ice, please,” Gold ordered, preparing a pallet of blankets and pillows. “Lie down, Belle. Let me take care of you.”

Belle’s eyes smarted with tears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold. Stupid of me, I know, but I…I wanted you to see me dance.”

“You could never be stupid, Belle. I know you thought I was focused on Ingrid, but seeing you dance tonight was the highlight of my year.” He smiled gently and Belle gave him a look of such joy that he nearly swore that he would watch her dance all day, every day, if it would make her happy. Instead he said, “Call me Gold, or Christian, if you prefer. ‘Mister’ is what children call their friends’ fathers.”

“Well, Christian, you are certainly not my father,” Belle replied, the sultriness of her voice making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“I’m quite aware.” He chuckled wryly. “Despite my advanced age, there is nothing paternal about my thoughts toward you.” Drawing her ankle into his lap to massage her injured foot, Belle suddenly made a noise of distress and curled into a ball, her eyes filling with misery.

Gold recoiled as if she’d burned him. A brief moment of intimate understanding and he had somehow fumbled it. Maybe he had misread her after all? “My apologies. I won’t touch you. I rather had the impression that you cared for me.” _Why would this beautiful young woman want your soiled hands on her body?_ Hurt, he nodded brusquely and stabbed the floor with his cane to rise.

“Don’t go!” Belle cried out, catching his arm. Finally, he had confessed to feeling something for her and she had gone and made him feel rejected—the very last thing she had intended. _Way to go, Belle. Finally you have a chance with this amazing man and you’ve screwed it all up._ Gulping down tears she said, “Please, stay with me. It’s just—my ankle—it’s a long story and I…”

Visibly his stiff posture relaxed and he turned back. “I think I understand.” He tapped his bad knee, mangled under the smooth armor of his silk trousers to remind her that he, too, was less than physically perfect.

“Will you lie down beside me?” she asked hopefully. “Just to keep each other warm, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, stretching out next to her and propping himself up on the pillows at the head of their makeshift bed.

A few feet away, Emma and Bae had also bedded down—nearby, but using separate blankets and pillows. “So it’s do as I say, not as I do, right Pop?” Bae ambled over to tease as his father looped an arm around Belle’s shoulders, pulling her closer.

Unamused, Gold glared at him. “That’s right. Go back to your spot, son.”

Obeying, Bae grinned, exchanging a look with Emma. He was beyond thrilled that his father and Miss French were growing closer. If a blizzard and a blackout was what it took for them to admit their feelings, it could snow all week for all he cared.

Emma giggled as Mr. Gold arranged a spare pillow under Belle’s foot to elevate it. “Oh my gosh, they’re so cute. Your dad is worried about her ankle. I _knew_ he liked her! I still can’t believe he made us sit in the parking lot at Granny’s last night until she walked back to the dance studio and started her car.”

“Yeah, and he kept adjusting the side view mirrors while he pretended not to wait,” Bae chortled, killing the brightest flashlight. “Pop likes to act tough, but he’s got a soft heart.”

“You know we can still hear you, right?” Gold’s voice floated through the darkness and he was glad his lovely companion couldn’t see the blush staining his cheeks.

Belle’s heart jumped so high it could have been _en pointe._ He cared for her! She snuggled deeper into his embrace with a happy sigh. Outside the blizzard raged, but inside the dark theatre, Belle felt warm, safe, and surrounded by love. Being tucked against Christian’s side was both thrilling and comforting, and she couldn’t imagine any place she’d rather be than in the circle of his arms.

Belle smiled into Gold’s shoulder. “What an adorable couple they are. Baeden is a wonderful young man and such a gentleman. You’ve done a good job raising him, Christian, especially because you’ve done it all on your own.”

“Oh, Belle. It means so much to hear you say that.” Gold’s voice cracked with emotion. “I’ve so often questioned whether I was doing right by him.”

“if he turns out to be half the man you are, he will be a great success in life and in love,” she pledged, pressing a kiss to his whiskered cheek. His aftershave smelled spicy and delicious. Craving more, she moved her lips to the pulse point in his neck. A moan of appreciation reverberated through his throat.

Belle’s ankle throbbed punishingly, the pain a reminder that she was not whole. Feeling her stiffen and start to pull back, Gold tightened his arms around her back. “What happened to your ankle, sweetheart? I thought you may have hurt it tonight, but from your reaction earlier…it’s an old injury, isn’t it?”

 _Sweetheart._ The endearment sent a shock of pleasure through her entire body and she turned on a small flashlight to peer into his concerned face. Empathy was etched into his handsome features. Sorrowfully, she told him about the car accident that stole her career and her mother’s life in one fell swoop.  

“So you lost your mama who introduced you to the ballet and you never got to dance Clara,” he concluded after she had told him all about The Nutcracker. “That’s what makes this ballet in particular so important to you.”

“You understand?” It seemed impossible that he would accept her and her foolish feelings so readily. “Even though my ankle—”

“Your ankle is a part of you and that makes it beautiful.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “That accident, your mother…none of it was your fault, Belle.”

“I’m trying hard to believe that,” she sighed. “Really, I am.”

They lay in silence for a few minutes until Belle spoke again into the darkness. “What happened between you and your wife?”

Leaning forward a bit, he hid his face against her hair and took a deep breath. “What happened is…I’m a difficult man to love.”

“That’s not true,” she protested, pushing on his chest. “You? You’re everything.”

“Before you defend me, little Belle, let me tell you my tale, all right?” he chided kindly. “Milah and I married for Baeden, not for love. We were young and foolish. Milah became pregnant, and I wanted to do the honorable thing. But we weren’t a good match. Money and status were very important to her, and she pushed me endlessly to work more hours and increase my salary. Sometimes she would disappear for days at a time—off to exotic locales to satisfy her gambling addiction. The more money we had, the more she wanted. We fought about money all the time. We quarreled one Christmas while I was trying to put the star on top of a very tall tree. That’s when I fell and shattered my knee. Soon after that, she left us. Being a wife and mother wasn’t what she wanted. I didn’t love her, but I cared enough about her to respect her decision. It’s been 14 years since Bae’s seen her. I don’t even know where she is anymore.”

“Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.” Belle wrapped her arms around his waist. “That must have been so hard.”

“Since then, I’ve never cared much for Christmas. The lights, the trees, the Christmas productions…all of it reminds me of what a failure I’ve been,” he said bitterly.

“Not a failure. Resilient. A survivor,” she stressed, grazing his collarbone with her fingers. “Is that why you’ve tried to keep me away?”

“I know I’ve been a beast,” he said, ashamed. “Being so mean to you when you’ve tried to talk to me at the library and in church and, well, everywhere else. The truth is that it hurts to be around you Belle. You’re so lovely, healthy, and full of life. When I see you, I want more for myself than just my son’s happiness. You….you make me want to live.”

“You have so much to live for!” she exclaimed. "Don't dismiss what you have to offer. You're talented, smart, successful, artistic, and an amazing father. You are a very special man." Belle kissed his cheeks, finding them wet with tears.

“Oh, Belle.” Her name was a gruff noise, his throat thick from crying.

“Chris, I have an idea,” she said slowly, a thought taking shape. They couldn’t change their imperfections, but perhaps sharing them would help make them feel whole.

“Tell me, Belle. What’s your idea?”

“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” she blurted recklessly. “You can see my ankle if I can see your knee.” Her tone was teasing but Gold heard the tremor beneath the casual words. It gave him a surge of confidence. She was just as frightened as he was.

“Aye,” he exhaled against her forehead. “I would like that. Should I…should I go first?”

Nodding against his chest, she crawled down his body and began rolling up his left pant leg. Gooseflesh broke out over his calf as her warm breath skimmed the length of his lower leg. She slid the silk fabric just above his knee and tentatively grazed the gnarled mass of muscle and bone with her fingertips. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he replied in a strangled whisper. Warm, soothing, and accepting, her touch felt incredible. There was no hesitation as her hands moved over him, no hint that she was repulsed or repelled in any way.

“Good,” she said, lowering her cheek to his knee to nuzzle it. She spent long minutes massaging and stroking, then kissed every one of his scars until his breath was ragged with emotion. Satisfied, she smoothed his trousers back into place. “This is the knee of a warrior.”

Tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks anew. He hadn’t cried this much since Baeden was born.

“My turn,” she whispered. Lifting her hips, Belle shimmied out of her tights quickly, burrowing against Christian to ward off the chill, but keeping her ankle elevated.

Rising, he moved to kneel at her feet, cushioning his bad knee with a pillow. “But your leg!” Belle protested.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he promised, bringing her foot into his lap as he had done earlier that evening. Belle inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to roll out of reach. Christian had been brave in allowing her to touch his knee. The least she could do was be vulnerable in return.

Tenderly he rotated the joint, Belle’s foot enveloped in his large, warm palms. He tickled her heel, making her squeal, gently massaged her arch, then kissed each of her toes, largest to smallest. Pressing a kiss to the smooth knob of her ankle bone, he ran his hands over her soft skin, memorizing by feel what he could not see in the black theatre. Finally, he worshipped her entire ankle with open-mouthed kisses, and Belle had never in her life imagined anything so lovingly selfless as his hot, wet mouth on her ugly, ruined foot.

“Beautiful,” he pronounced, pressing one last kiss to the protruding bone and helping Belle to slide her tights back over her slender, shapely legs. Dazed and shaking with desire, she clumsily followed his motions.

“So you don’t get cold,” he rushed to assure her. “And so I don’t bloody well die from your bare legs pressed against me. Someday soon I will love you properly, but not here on the floor with my son sleeping ten feet away.”

“Yes,” she beamed, making no attempt to hide her happiness at his obvious arousal. Shyly she asked, “Did I do that to you?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He smothered a groan and positioned her curly head against his heart, allowing her to hear and feel the rapid beat of his excitement. “Sleep now,” he urged, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I’ll be right here.”

Smiling contentedly, they drifted to sleep together in the still, silent theatre.

* * *

Belle awoke suddenly, groping for Christian in the dark. But he was nowhere to be found. And she wasn’t on the floor. Panicking, she sat up and looked around anxiously for Emma and Baeden. They were gone as well. Looking down at herself, she was startled to find that she was no longer dressed in her navy blue ballet tunic but instead wore a gauzy, white nightgown. Her ballet slippers, which she had long since shucked and placed in her satchel were back on her feet. What was going on?

Glancing around, it appeared she was no longer in the theatre at all, but in a large well-appointed drawing room where she had been sleeping on a settee. A fire crackled merrily and a fragrant, towering Christmas tree dominated the center of the room. Under the tree were dozens of gifts wrapped in jewel-bright paper. Emma’s Nutcracker sat there, smiling among the packages. Oddly, the little tourniquet she had made for his injured leg was missing, the knee completely healed. Not only that, but she wiggled her ankle, finding it in perfect condition. How had that happened?

“Hello, Belle,” the Nutcracker greeted in a lilting Scottish accent. Belle shrieked. He sounded like…Christian?

“Chris?” she whispered in disbelief as a giant grandfather clock struck midnight. How extraordinary! Christian was now the same size as the Nutcracker and had come to life in her arms! “What in the world? Where are we?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he growled, “but I have a feeling I won’t like the answer.”

At the final peal of the chimes, an army of tin soldiers threw open the lid of a bright red box, and Belle and Christian watched speechless as one by one, giant mice appeared, slaughtering the little soldiers in a matter of moments.

“Chris, I think we’re inside the ballet.” Belle was incredulous.

“So that’s why I’m wearing tights and this ridiculous mask? Good God, I may as well be naked!” he complained.

“I think you look very handsome,” she said, admiring his compact, wiry build. He was regal and handsome in the Nutcracker’s uniform. “Relax and follow my lead. I think I know what happens next.”

As if on cue, the Pirate Mouse King appeared, leering at Belle. “What a lovely wench you have here, Nutcracker,” he laughed lasciviously, plucking Christian out of Belle’s arms. “Might I borrow her for an evening?”

Gold recoiled at the insolent request. There was no way he was letting this creature anywhere near his Belle. “Hmmm, let me think.” Christian bared his teeth and brandished his tiny sword, slashing the Mouse King across the face. “No!”

Surprised by the attack, the Mouse King staggered back, still gripping Christian in his meaty fist.

“Release my Prince!” Belle shouted, stomping her foot.

“As my lady commands,” the Mouse King cackled, pointing his magical scepter at Belle. “Meddling human towering tall, let my scepter shrink you small.”

As Belle shrank down to doll size and the massive Christmas tree climbed high into the sky like a magical beanstalk, the Mouse King dropped Christian to the floor. Gold landed with a thud on top of Belle, who had used her own body as a pillow to catch him.

“Thank you,” Gold said, staring through his mask into her flushed face.

“You’re welcome,” she replied sweetly.    

Gaining their footing, they took off running hand-in-hand as the Mouse King led the charge of enormous mice. Separating Belle and Christian, two mice pinned Belle to the wall while the rest swarmed Christian, who was now outnumbered and about to die.

Stunned by the rapid turn of events, Belle came to the realization that it was her turn to save her Prince. Wresting away from her guards while Christian bravely fought the company of mice, Belle removed a ballet slipper and flung it at the Pirate Mouse King’s head. That strange bit of magic was all it took to topple him, and Belle watched in triumph as he crashed to the ground. She had saved Christian! Without their leader, the other mice grew frightened and scurried into the shadows, disappearing from sight.

Belle glided to her dream Prince, who was still wearing his Nutcracker mask. He removed it, and for an instant Christian’s warm brown eyes met hers, filled with uncertainty. Instinctively, Gold knew it was time to dance, but he was clueless and absolutely terrified. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to do this.”

Confidently, Belle waltzed into his arms, the very portrait of poised grace. “Follow my lead, Chris. We can do this together.”

No sooner had the words left her lips before they were swept back to the Storybrooke Community Theatre, circling the stage amongst faceless _corps de ballet_ snowflakes under a drifting shower of snow slivers.

A sleigh skimmed by. An orchestra materialized, singing the lilting Nutcracker themes, so familiar, so much a part of Belle’s life since she was only three years old and her mama had first taken her to see the ballet. Back when she had first fallen in love with dancing. Now she was falling in love again—but this time with the man in her arms. Though some part of her knew this was merely a dream, deep in her soul she gloried in the knowledge that the man himself was solid, true of heart, and very, very real.

Belle placed a hand in one of Christian’s and, with with her head held high, paraded with him through a fountain of soft lights to a dais where a golden throne sat. To entertain them came Spanish dancers, Arabians, a trio of Russian acrobats, and court ladies, all courtesy of the Sugar Plum Fairy as a reward for defeating the dreaded Mouse King.

Together they glided to center stage where Christian grasped Belle in his arms. His rough, calloused hands were warm, gentle. Their love duet began. _Pirouettes_ swept into _attitudes_. _Glissades_ into _arebesques_. High lifts into sheer falls. Holding each other close, brown eyes met blue in a swirling vortex of movement and emotion.

While he stood back to watch, Belle danced for her dream Prince. With a miraculously whole ankle, she _became_ Clara, twirling, jumping, and leaping the way she had always longed to, pouring all her feelings for this man into every step. Little jumps. Shimmering spins. Finally high-soaring leaps that sent her sailing past Christian, shining with love and joy.

Now it was Gold’s turn to impress Belle. And he did. Gone was his crippled knee; his cane nowhere in sight. Somehow, Gold knew the steps to a dance he’d never done before. Endless _pirouettes_. Spectacular air turns. Dazzling, twisting _tour de jetés_. Finally, in each other’s arms again, they skimmed among the circular snowflake dancers, including Drosselmeier with his frightening eye patch, threatening to steal her away.

No! Belle wouldn’t give up her dream Prince. Holding tight to Christian, she melted to the floor in his embrace. As the snowy scenery faded into the background and the phantom _corps de ballet_ exited the stage, only Belle and Christian remained, still clutching each other close.

Rising slowly to his feet and guiding Belle to hers, Gold bowed deeply and presented his beauty with a shining red rose. “Find me tomorrow, sweetheart,” he whispered, backing out of her reach. Then he too faded into the blackness, leaving Belle alone on the stage.

* * *

“Mademoiselle French? Are you awake?”

“No,” Belle mumbled, trying in vain to find a soft spot on the mattress. Then she remembered: she wasn’t at home in her bed. Instead she’d spent the night at the theatre in Christian Gold’s arms. Yawning, Belle opened her eyes to find Emma Nolan peering down at her.

“Emma. Is it morning already?” On the pillow next to her where Christian had slept was a single, long-stemmed red rose. Lifting the bloom, she ran the soft fragrant petals across her cheek, wondering where he’d gone.

“Good morning. The plows are out clearing the roads. My dad was here as soon as he could get out of the driveway to let us out,” Emma reported. “They still have no idea how we got locked inside the building.”

“Well, no matter how it happened, it’s a relief to be going home! Where is Chris…uh, I mean, Mr. Gold?”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. That flower is from him,” Emma teased in a sing-song voice. “Mr. Gold gave me strict instructions not to wake you, but I thought you’d want to go home to shower and change.”

“Thank you, Emma. I can always count on you,” Belle replied, still staring at the rose. It looked eerily familiar to her but she couldn’t place why.

“Oh! And I almost forgot the most important part. Mr. Gold would like you to meet him in the town square in front of the Christmas tree at 10 o’clock. He said to bring the rose.”

“Find me tomorrow,” Belle gasped, then looked at her watch. “I’d better hurry!”

At 10 o’clock on the dot, Belle approached the town square, rounding the corner where the town Christmas tree towered, rivaling the clock tower for height. There he was, just as he said he’d be, and her heart somersaulted as she drank in the sight of him. He’d shaved and changed into a dark grey suit and a cheerful red tie, a bouquet of red roses in his hands. He looked fresh and pressed and gorgeous.

Feeling unaccountably nervous, Belle’s voice wobbled as she made her presence known. “Christian, hello.”

Quickly he walked to her, gripping her hands tightly. Beyond relieved, he released the breath he’d been holding as he waited. Beneath her red pea coat, she was stunningly beautiful in a green velvet dress that accented her creamy shoulders and her long, graceful neck. He could scarcely believe that this glorious creature was real, here, and cared for him. ““Belle. You came. I’m so glad to see you.”

“Find me tomorrow.” She blushed as she accepted the roses. “That’s what you told me after we danced…and you gave me this rose.” As she held out the bloom she’d found on his pillow this morning at the theatre, the details of the dream came flooding back.

“I was holding that rose this morning when I woke up,” he said hoarsely. “I dreamed I became the Nutcracker. You were Clara and we fought these giant mice, and you…”

“Threw my slipper at the Mouse King?” she finished, joyous laughter bubbling out of her.

“Yes,” he breathed. “You had the same dream? But how?”

“I think it was a Christmas miracle,” Belle smiled, echoing Ingrid’s words from the night before.

“But aren’t you disappointed, Belle? It was only a fantasy and you had _me_ for a dancing partner. Your dream was to dance The Nutcracker live on a real stage. I might have been a Prince last night, but it’s still the same old me from yesterday that you'll see again tomorrow.”

“No, I’m not disappointed.” She shook her head slowly.

“Why not?”

“You silly man! I danced Clara in The Nutcracker and the best part about it was that my partner was you! Besides,” she continued, “now I have a new dream.”

“You do?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” she said, stepping closer to loop her arms around his neck.

“What is it?” he dared, afraid to hope. She couldn’t mean?

“It’s you. You’re my dream," she said, eyes sparkling with happiness.

“And you’re mine,” he whispered, brushing his lips across hers once, twice, three times. “Belle,” he said, raising his head, “will you spend Christmas with me?”

“I would love to,” she accepted happily, fisting her hands in his hair to pull him down for another kiss.

“What about next Christmas?” he wondered, claiming her mouth again. “Will you spend next Christmas with me, too?”

“Yes, my Prince,” she promised, caressing his smooth jawline.

“Also, the Christmas after that, and the one after that, and the one after that?” Gold punctuated each request with a kiss until they were both breathless and laughing.

As they joked and teased, jingling sleigh bells rang through the crisp air, and Belle gasped as a gilded sleigh pulled to a stop in front of them. “What’s all this?” she asked as Gold steered her into the plush leather seat and pulled a warm blanket over their laps.

“Well, I decided that although we’re no longer dreaming, this was one fantasy I could make a reality,” he gestured toward the team of horses who were neighing and tossing their heads in anticipation. “How about a sleigh ride back to my house to have hot chocolate and cookies with Baeden, Emma, and me. Would you like that, Belle?”

“Oh yes!” She clapped her hands gleefully and the sleigh began to swish through the snow, carrying them home. “How can I refuse Christmas cheer with three of my favorite people? Thank you, Christian. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Belle. It's the best one I’ve spent in a very long time.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “The happiest ever.”

“So, are you going to keep your word and spend all your Christmases with me?” he asked lightly, kissing her cold little nose.

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” she teased, laying her head on his shoulder as the sleigh glided through the streets. “Ask me again when you find me tomorrow.”

 

_-The End-_

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Rumbelle Secret Santa and a lot of fun to write. One of my favorite Rumbelle themes is watching them wrestle with their imperfections and finding a way to overcome those difficulties to find comfort in each other. 
> 
> Comments and kudos really encourage me. Please share your thoughts.


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